


The Return From the Dead Affair

by LuckyLadybug



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyLadybug/pseuds/LuckyLadybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya has always heard that the past can come back to haunt you. He just wasn't expecting it to be so literal in this case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return From the Dead Affair

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine and the story is! The basic concept of this, and a little bit of the introductory note Illya receives, are taken from an unfinished series of vignettes I was posting at MFU_100 on Livejournal.com and at Fanfiction.net. I believe, however, that I have handled the idea much better this time around. As to why I decided to let these characters live after their apparent deaths in their episode The Odd Man Affair, well, it all started because of darling Christopher Cary. I didn’t want a character played by an actor I treasure so much to be dead. Later I decided that he should have his friend with him, too, especially since his friend seemed to completely flip out after the canonical death of Chrissy's character. And now this piece looks like it could be the start of another vignette series.

He knew he was not alone.

The Russian moved quickly through the night, listening and looking for the signs of his stalker. Either the mysterious person was very bad at what he did or he was deliberately letting his prey remain aware that he was there. Every now and then, there was a distinctive footfall or a shadowy swish of a coat.

It had been going on for several weeks, really, starting with a bizarre and puzzling incident where U.N.C.L.E.’s computers had actually been reprogrammed to spit out several confounding messages.

_Hello, Mr. Kuryakin! I know your organization must be in a conundrum._  
Your employer is arrogant enough to believe that no one could do this to  
his prize U.N.C.L.E. computers. But now you see that he was wrong. 

_I did this just to drop you a line. You won’t remember me, I’m sure, but  
both you and Mr. Solo met me, briefly, not that long ago. I have never  
forgotten you. Were you to recall me, I daresay you would be gutted._

As predicted, Mr. Waverly had certainly been in an outraged tizzy over the incident. He had demanded swift results in uncovering the prankster’s identity, something that, so far, Illya and Napoleon had not been able to deliver.

What was worse, using U.N.C.L.E.’s computers had only been the beginning. Since then, Illya had found assorted photographs and notes delivered to his mailbox on most days. The photos were always of various activities he engaged in, from checking the newspaper on a stand to having dinner with Napoleon. The notes were taunting and brief, with such sentiments as _Have you remembered me yet?_ and _You can see you have nowhere to hide_.

Since the character was someone from Illya’s more immediate past, he and Napoleon had spent hours poring over casefiles and studying each person in every one. They had compiled a long list of possible stalkers in three columns. The first column was of the people most likely to hold a grudge. The second was of those least likely. The third was of those whose feelings were unknown.

They had focused on investigating the first column before anything else. Most of those people were in prison, dead, or unfortunately in parts unknown. Naturally all deceased parties had been scratched off the list.

The same pattern had repeated with the second and third columns. Some of those alive had flat-out denied being the ones involved. Some from the third column had admitted to bitter, angry feelings but professed innocence in the matter. Others had laughed and said they wished they had thought of it. A scant few others had taunted Illya and Napoleon, daring them to find out whether they were guilty.

Since those initial interviews, quite a few other names had been crossed off the list. But there were still a great many that remained. So far, Illya and Napoleon had not managed to determine whether or not any of them were responsible. Mr. Waverly was not happy. Neither were they.

Illya kept going back to that first communication, running it over and over in his mind as though his mind were a computer. He had memorized it weeks ago.

_You would be gutted._

The strange phrasing gave him pause. It was a British expression of deep dismay and might not mean anything more than that. On the other hand, it could be a clue.

Could it refer to someone Illya had stabbed in the line of duty?

That was a rather long list as well, however, and the possible persons of interest were already on the first list.

Illya slowed in his steps. The first list only named those known to be alive at the time the list had been written. Some had died after their meetings with Illya and the list had been updated thusly once they had learned those truths.

Those whom they had already been aware had died from the wounds inflicted had not been on the list at all. They certainly couldn’t reach out from the grave and seek revenge. That was the stuff of late-night horror films, and there were already more than enough real-life horrors in the world to keep Illya occupied. He didn’t need to bother with even entertaining the thought of such nonsense.

However, some of those people might have had loved ones who could be coming after him now. But if so, he had apparently met said loved one. It might take a great deal longer to compile a list of all the personally known family and friends and associates of people he had been forced to kill in battle or in the defense of others—not because there were so many, but because they knew of so few.

Were there any others? What if the person stabbed was just some grunt that he had encountered for not more than a minute? And regardless, what if he did not even know of the connection between that person and the possible loved one who might be stalking him now?

Well, the person after him wasn’t trying to hide their presence. Perhaps that meant they were in a conversational mood. And regardless, perhaps it was time that Illya stopped tolerating his shadow.

“I know you’re there,” he spoke aloud. “Why persist in this cloak-and-dagger nonsense? Come out.” He reached for his gun. It wouldn’t be prudent to not steel himself for an assault.

A low chuckle filled the cold New York air. In the next moment, a shadow stepped across the sidewalk, one finger tapping the brim of a fedora hat and pushing it back just slightly.

Illya stared at the strange character. Apparently unconcerned with being conspicuous, he was wearing a trenchcoat and sunglasses in addition to the hat. He looked like the stereotypical mysterious men in old spy films.

“Do you remember me at all, Kuryakin?” he greeted in a gravelly British voice. “I wouldn’t really expect you would. After all, we were nothing more than opposite spies passing in the night. We both had our jobs to do, and you stopped me quite effectively from completing mine.” He removed his sunglasses, sticking them in one of his coat’s many pockets. His blue eyes gleamed in the night, matching Illya’s own.

“I remember you,” Illya said with a frown. “I thought I had killed you in Hyde Park. No.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you were dead.”

The Brit sneered at him, undoing the belt on his coat. “What, then? You think I’m a ghost come to haunt you? Or worse, the undead?”

“I do not believe in the supernatural when I can help it. But that leaves three possibilities.” Illya watched the enemy agent closely. “One—I was mistaken about your death. Two—you are an imposter sent to unhinge me. Or three . . .” He hesitated, the last option weighing heavily on his heart and his sense of logic. Still, it had to be mentioned. He could never forget the Nazarone case, after all. “Your organization has discovered how to revive the dead.”

Now the other man was pulling his shirt out from his trousers and deftly unbuttoning the bottom buttons. “I can promise you, Kuryakin, I am not an imposter. This isn’t fake.” He drew back the material, revealing a ghastly, fresh scar directly over his abdomen. “But I don’t think I’ll tell you which of your other two choices is right. I’m surprised you’d even consider the third.”

“After everything I have seen, I’ve learned to consider all possibilities.” Glowering at him, Illya added, “Mr. Ecks.”

Ecks did not seem surprised, albeit his eyes gave the briefest flicker. “So, you know my codename after all. I thought I was just a nameless victim to you.” He rebuttoned his shirt, shoving it back into place.

“U.N.C.L.E.’s assignment at the time concerned studying your organization and thwarting the traitorous Mr. Zed’s scheme. I learned your codename sometime after _I killed you_.” Illya stared at the enemy agent, his eyes dark and filled with warnings.

“From whom?” Ecks shot back.

“That is not important.” Illya was certainly not about to say anything of Albert Sully, who was still undercover as the mysterious and sadistic Mr. Raymond. Nor would he dream of mentioning the retired spy Bryn Watson, who had actually been the one to reveal all codenames in the organization.

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” Ecks relented. “Not anymore.”

“I will say that we wondered what had happened to your body when we returned to Hyde Park and it was gone,” Illya said. “The police had not been called; your death was never on the news.”

“Wye went back for me after that woman knocked him off the bus,” Ecks grunted. “I don’t know why no one rang the police before he got back. Maybe they all thought I was a drunk. I wouldn’t be surprised after the way you and Solo were carousing around with me.”

“How do you know about the bus?” Illya pounced. “Surely you weren’t aware enough that Wye told you then.”

“He told me later.” Ecks spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Illya remained suspicious. “Mr. Wye is dead,” he said calmly. “He was shot at least twice, and ironically enough, by one of your people and not by me.”

Ecks sneered again. “You’re a fool, Kuryakin. Wye is alive, and with me. He just decided to let me savor this meeting on my own, at least to start with.”

“Alright.” Illya narrowed his eyes. “Let’s assume for the moment that you are telling the truth. How is Mr. Wye alive as well as you?”

“It’s possible that neither of us was dead to begin with,” Ecks said. “Or maybe your science-fiction theory is true for both of us.”

Illya raised his gun. “You had best be honest with me,” he snapped. “While you might find it entertaining to send U.N.C.L.E. on a wild goose chase for the technology to revive the dead, I doubt your employers would appreciate a new investigation into their organization.”

A shrug. “You won’t shoot me now, not when you want information from me. But alright, we weren’t dead. You thought I was. Wye thought I was. But when he had the chance to examine me better, he found I was still barely alive. When he took me away from the park, he brought me to an out of the way hospital without anyone’s knowledge.”

“Napoleon and I checked all the hospitals in the area,” Illya said. “How far away were you taken?”

“Far enough,” Ecks said vaguely. “As for Wye, I didn’t know what had happened to him when I recovered enough to know he wasn’t around. I figured he was probably dead. But he wasn’t, and we managed to find each other again. Decided to keep working together.” Ecks spoke flippantly, betraying none of his inner feelings—if he still had any that hadn’t been trained right out of him.

It was somewhat strange to look at him, Illya decided. He was almost a mirror. It wasn’t the physical similarities of hair and eye colors, nor the slender, lithe quality of his form—but rather, the fact that he was also a spy, trained to kill.

The difference was that he was on the opposite side. And that was quite a big difference. He fought not for the protection of the innocent, but for greed and, apparently, for revenge.

“I’m certain you did. But what you are not saying is that you no longer work for that organization,” Illya deduced. “Otherwise, I doubt very much if you would have the luxury of deciding whether to work together or not.”

Ecks nodded, not surprised. “Wye is right—you’re no fool. Let’s say we’re freelancers now. After that big plan of ours went pear-shaped thanks to you, I was reported dead and no one had much chance to examine Wye in all the hubbub. That was just as well; Wye managed to get away and lay low until he was better. He would’ve been killed for being a traitor had he lived. So he decided to just play dead and start over.”

“He had found you were alive yet still reported you dead?” Illya said. “Wouldn’t they have investigated your ‘death’ and learned that all of you were traitors?”

“He only told Mr. Zed that I was dead,” Ecks replied. “He left it up to Zed on how to explain my disappearance to the rest of the organization in a way that wouldn’t incite their suspicions about any of us.”

“I still don’t understand,” Illya frowned, folding his arms. “The two of you and Zed were all traitors together. Why tell Zed you were dead?”

“Wye felt there wasn’t much of any other way to go about it. If he had said I was alive, there would be the sticky matter of explaining to the organization how I was wounded. Then the whole unpleasant truth might have come out and we’d have all taken the fall. Either that or Zed would have decided to use me as a scapegoat and say that I was the only traitor. Wye didn’t want that to happen to me.”

“So he reported you dead because he cared about you enough that he wanted you to still have a chance to live, even if not in the organization.” Illya finally understood.

“You think it’s strange to find caring on the other side, Kuryakin?” Ecks sneered.

“No,” Illya replied flatly. “No matter one’s training, in every organization there are always those who are human in spite of it.”

“Interesting point-of-view for someone with your background. And your brutal methods of attack.” Ecks leaned against the brick wall of the building behind him. “U.N.C.L.E. usually uses sleeping darts and other delightfully non-permanent incapacitations. You really didn’t have to go for the knife. But you’re more extreme than some of your associates, aren’t you?”

“I do what I feel must be done.” Illya kept his gun steady. “However, nevermind the personal philosophies. What has been the purpose of all this? Do you intend to kill me?”

“Hardly. There wouldn’t be any satisfaction in that. When I kill, it’s because it’s my job, same as it is for you. I just wanted to let you know I’m still out here, Kuryakin. At least one of your intended victims made it back alive.”

“And you’re not concerned that I will tell your organization that you and Mr. Wye are still alive?” Illya scrutinized his enemy.

“Oh, you’d be capable of it, if you thought it was necessary. I just don’t think you would at this point. Sending you a few little insincere love letters wouldn’t be grounds for setting us up to be shot.”

“Then you had better not do anything worse,” Illya warned.

Ecks shrugged. “That remains to be seen. You may have got the better of me once, but it won’t happen again. The next time we meet, if ever we do, it will be on an official case. I won’t lose then.”

“Nor will I,” Illya replied calmly.

“To shared determination then.” Ecks started to back up, not trusting himself to turn his back on the man who had once nearly killed him. He replaced his sunglasses, melting into the shadows of an alley behind him.

Illya stared after him for a moment before walking past the alley and continuing on his way.

The beeping of his communicator dragged him out of whatever thoughts he had become involved in. He took it out and uncapped the microphone. “Kuryakin.”

“Illya, what’s going on?” Napoleon’s bewildered voice came over the speaker. “You should have had more than enough time to get here by now. Mr. Waverly is not amused.”

“I’m coming now,” Illya replied. “I had an unplanned stop.”

“Really.” The skeptical Napoleon’s eyebrow could practically be heard rising. “I’m usually the one with the unplanned stops. Are you going to tell me about it?”

“Later, perhaps. I will be there soon.” Without waiting for Napoleon’s reply, Illya recapped the communicator and kept walking.

Just in case Ecks—or Wye—was still lurking about, Illya did not want them to hear him talking to Napoleon about tonight’s bizarre meeting. He would tell Napoleon in private after their conference with Mr. Waverly.

****

The night was still mysterious and dark, more than a little fitting for the shadowy characters still existing within it. While Illya proceeded to U.N.C.L.E., his stalker remained behind to regroup with his confederate.

A man with graying hair and a mustache looked over, his expression disapproving, as Ecks climbed back into their car. This was the agent formerly known as Mr. Wye. He and Ecks had retaken their civilian names to distance themselves further from their organization, but privately they still thought of each other by the codenames they had used from the moment of their first meeting.

“You’re satisfied now, I hope,” he commented.

“It went about how I expected,” Ecks said. “All that watching of Kuryakin paid off. He never even knew I was there until tonight, when I _let_ him know.” He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes in pleasure. “After he and Solo pulled that little trick on me, making sure I didn’t hear them in the park until it was too late, it felt good to know that I am capable of turning the tables.”

“And Kuryakin could have turned them back again,” Wye retorted. “Cor blimey! I most certainly wouldn’t call being stabbed in the belly a ‘little trick’! Chalk it up as a learning experience to be grateful you’re walking away from and leave Kuryakin alone.”

Ecks opened his eyes again. “I _am_ grateful,” he said, sobering. “Going after Kuryakin was a way to prove to myself I still have what it takes in this dirty business. There’s nothing quite like almost being done in by the enemy to make one wonder if his best days are behind him.”

Wye shook his head. “If anything, your best days are still ahead of you. I was still training you when all that happened.”

“And now neither of us has anyplace to go,” Ecks mused. “We can never go back to our old organization. Anyway, even if they wouldn’t off us, I hear it’s almost broken apart by now thanks to that infiltrator U.N.C.L.E. got in there. I suppose we could have gone back and taken the chance that they wouldn’t kill us if we pointed the chap out, but you were probably right that it would’ve been too big a risk.”

“I’ve known them longer than you have,” Wye said. “They’re not the forgiving sort, especially to traitors like us. They’re the ‘make one mistake and die’ sort.”

“And we certainly can’t get into an organization here in the States,” Ecks continued, as though he had only half-heard. “At least, nothing large and respectable like U.N.C.L.E. Freelancing might be alright for now, but it isn’t what I wanted long-term.”

“It isn’t what I wanted either,” Wye grunted. “Our old organization had retirement benefits I planned to cash in on someday.”

“We could try THRUSH,” Ecks suggested, giving him a sideways glance.

“They might not take us either,” Wye said. “We’re probably blacklisted almost everywhere for betraying our organization. Not that you could blame blokes for not trusting us. Anyway, I’ve had about enough of organizations that don’t allow for more leeway on mistakes. Naturally one has to strive to not make mistakes, but sometimes they’re unavoidable.”

“Then I guess there’s not much we can do other than what we’re already doing,” Ecks said.

“I would doubt it.” Wye sighed as he started the car’s engine. “We’ll go back to our motel tonight and try to figure out where to go from here in the morning.”

“Suits me,” Ecks said. “Of course, we could always go on the road as public-minded citizens. You could waffle about nothing, like you did when you were discreetly passing on information in Hyde Park, and we could live off of donations.” He gave a wicked smirk.

Wye rolled his eyes. “I’m not a two-bit ruddy con artist and neither are you. We’re not going to sink that low unless we have no other choice.”

“And we might not,” Ecks shrugged.

Wye glanced to him before slowly turning the car around and heading back the way they had come. Ecks wasn’t a boy any longer, and even when he had been the youth Wye had been instructed to train, he had mostly been serious and quiet. He was a strange mixture, capable of cunning and ruthlessness as easily as having afternoon tea. But every now and then, there was still something almost childishly mischievous about him.

In other circumstances, Wye might have been amused by a stunt like Ecks had engineered to torment Illya Kuryakin over the past few weeks. In some ways, it was more like something Wye himself might have done—albeit Wye wouldn’t have dragged it out so long, preferring instead to get right to any inflicted physical pain. Ecks was more meticulous and liked planning things out. He said he savored them better that way.

But in any case, because Ecks had nearly died at Kuryakin’s hands and Wye felt protective, he had considered it immature nonsense and had only gone along because he couldn’t see himself leaving Ecks to face it alone. (He didn’t have anywhere else to go, anyway.) However, now that Ecks had revealed his real reasons for masterminding the stalking plot, Wye understood a lot better why he had done it.

It was sad, really, he reflected. Ecks wasn’t that old, but the organization they had both worked for had drained his childhood and added years to his life. Ecks felt much older than he actually was. And if he felt that way, sometimes Wye felt positively ancient.

“Funny,” Ecks spoke then.

“What is?” Wye grunted, failing to see anything amusing about any aspect of their situation.

“We’re like the wanderers in those shows on the telly that go gallivanting all around the country or the world looking for jobs or adventure or whatnot. We’ve been reduced to that after having high positions in an international spy organization.” Ecks glanced to him. “Only we’d never be the protagonists in a series like that. They’d figure we got what we deserved, being the antagonists.”

“And I suppose that if we’d really been fighting for something we believed in, it might go better for us,” Wye mused. “Instead, we were out for power and personal gory.” He smirked a bit. “Not that many of the so-called ‘good guys’ aren’t out for exactly the same thing. No one ever thinks much about that.”

“But Kuryakin’s not that kind.” Ecks gazed into the distance now. “Now he’s a true-blue hero if ever I saw one. He’s the sort of person they’d make a series about with him as the protagonist.”

“They probably would,” Wye acknowledged. “His partner Solo as well.”

“I guess we’re faring better than a lot of antagonists might, though,” Ecks decided. “We’re alive. And for the moment, we’re free.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Wye agreed. “In a series, we would be more likely to be killed off just like that.”

“Good thing this is reality,” Ecks mumbled, slumping down farther in the seat.

Wye smiled slightly. It was indeed. For a while he had believed the reality was that Ecks was dead. Then, shortly after finding he was still alive, it had looked as though he, Wye, would meet his end.

In those moments when he had believed Ecks dead, he had gone through dozens of scenarios in his mind, ranging from telling Mr. Zed about the death and not receiving any genuine interest or sympathy to burying Ecks himself. The boy certainly didn’t have anyone else who would bother even now to look after him. And when Wye had believed him to be gone, it had deeply bothered him to think of the burial being turned over to complete, indifferent strangers.

Even after he had found that Ecks was alive, Wye had been furious and bitter over the attempted killing of his partner. He shouldn’t have taken it to heart, he knew; it was all part of the spy trade. But while it had been easy to tell it to himself, it had proved impossible to follow. And Ecks had only been barely clinging to life when Wye had got him to the hospital, so the possibility of his death had still hung heavy over Wye’s head.

Despite a rather sadistic streak that Mr. Zed had always liked about him, he had usually kept it fairly in check, knowing it was not professional to let it out. But somehow, the sight of that woman at the meeting in Mr. Zed’s mansion had caused him to snap. She had been present with the men who had tried to kill Ecks, and not seeing either of them, he had taken out his rage on her. The fight—which had swiftly acquired Kuryakin as well—had directly resulted in his near-death when his gun had gone off and a guard had responded by fired repeatedly through the closed door. He had collapsed in shock and pain, figuring that was it for him.

He had only revived some time later, lying who knew where with the other dead. They had all been dragged out of the house and left in a shed in the back to be prepared for their assorted and often ignoble burials. He was just lucky he had managed to slip away. He hadn’t been missed then and likely never would be; the organization cared little for traitors and hadn’t kept track of his body. With Mr. Zed identified as such, his right-hand man Mr. Wye had swiftly been placed in the same category and “posthumously” scorned.

He still didn’t know how he had succeeded in crawling off, badly bleeding and half out of his mind. The resilience of the human body to live truly was amazing.

It was also amazing that the organization had not learned of his survival and come after him to kill him for real. He had been found several miles from where he had started out and taken into the hospital as an unknown. He had faked amnesia in the hopes of achieving anonymity and it had worked.

It had been a strange reunion with Ecks, when it had finally come. Ecks had thought Wye was dead and Wye hadn’t known if Ecks had pulled through. Ecks had mourned in his quiet way and had been in the process of preparing to leave England, most likely for good. When healed, Wye had returned to the other hospital and learned that Ecks had recovered and left some time ago. And knowing the younger man’s mind quite well, Wye had hit upon the departure plan and started looking, hoping to catch him before he left. They had finally met and had decided to stay together to weather their new and odd existence. And for better or worse, here they were.

Perhaps, as Ecks had mockingly sneered to Kuryakin, it was unusual that they cared about each other after coming from such a place as their cold-hearted organization. Maybe it was at least partially out of necessity; they were all each other had and always had been. But somehow Wye felt that it wasn’t only for that reason. Just on general principle, one could get awfully fond of someone after working with them for so long.

The motel soon loomed ahead of them, cheap and elongated and not at all what they had been used to. But it wasn’t the worst place they could be staying by far. And at least it was a place. Perhaps someday they would be living higher on the hog again.

Wye parked near their door and got out, taking out the room key. Ecks soon followed, pausing to stare upward at the New York City sky. For a moment he drifted out of the present, memories flashing through his mind in rapid succession.

He still remembered the searing pain of his own dagger plunging into his stomach. Perhaps it was fitting that he had experienced that, after all the times he had used the thing in his job.

He had floated in and out of consciousness for a while. And though he had been too disturbed to tell Wye, he was quite sure that he had floated out of his body too. He had a vague memory of standing on the sidewalk, staring at Wye kneeling next to his body. But it had only been for a moment. Then he had gasped in pain and woke up, shocking Wye so much he had nearly toppled over.

Maybe observing Wye had just been a dream. He liked to tell that to himself anyway. The alternative was more than a little unsettling. He could probably find out the truth one way or the other if he told Wye what he had seen, but then he might learn that it had been real. It was nicer to be able to think it wasn’t.

Recovery had been long and agonizing. He had always heard that the stomach was one of the worst places to be wounded, if one survived, and now he could certainly attest to that.

Believing that Wye was dead had only made it worse. He had known that Wye would come back and check on him if able, and when the days had stretched into weeks with no word, he had sadly conceded that they must have uncovered Wye’s part in the plot and killed him because of it. He had resigned himself to continuing alone, although he hadn’t known what he would even do with his life. His best skills were what he had used in the organization.

Wye running up to him at the airfield and telling him to wait was a memory that still amazed him as it had then. He couldn’t have been more surprised—or more happy.

“Ecks?”

He started back to the present. Wye had the door open and was looking to him, questioningly.

“Coming.” Ecks walked around the car and over to the open door. Wye pulled it shut after them.

They were both still unsure what the future held for them, but that was alright. They would get by.

****

Mr. Waverly was highly impatient by the time Illya arrived at U.N.C.L.E. HQ. “Mr. Kuryakin,” he greeted. “It’s very good of you to actually join us. Mr. Solo tells me you had an unplanned stop. Would you care to tell us about it?”

“It would take quite a long explanation, Sir,” Illya said as he took his seat at the large, round table. He glanced at Napoleon, who could not hide the curiosity in his eyes despite otherwise keeping his expression impassive.

“Very well then. As I imagine we have more pressing business at the moment, I will inquire after the details of your adventure later.” And that was the end of it, as far as Mr. Waverly was concerned.

That was just fine with Illya, who preferred to talk the matter over with Napoleon before telling Mr. Waverly anyway. He listened attentively in the meeting, offering commentary or asking questions when he found it necessary. THRUSH and the other international enemy spy organizations were laying low for the moment; the main concern was the imminent arrival of a foreign diplomat and how U.N.C.L.E. would protect him during his stay. Once a basic course of action was mapped out, the meeting was concluded.

“Well, now, are you going to tell me what actually happened?” Napoleon asked after they said their goodbyes to Mr. Waverly and were walking up one of the many corridors.

“I uncovered the identity of my stalker,” Illya told him.

“. . . You could have told that to Mr. Waverly,” Napoleon said after a pause of initial surprise. “We’re both aware that he’s been going mad wanting to know. It might take some heat off of us to bring him the news. Or is there a reason why you didn’t want to let him in on it?”

“It might only add heat. My stalker is a man who was supposed to be dead.” Illya kept looking ahead as they walked. “I stabbed him with his own knife in Hyde Park.”

Napoleon slowed in his pace. “I see.” From Illya’s words, as well as the new, far-off tone to his voice, Napoleon realized instantly whom Illya meant. It had happened on a case they both remembered well and had discussed at times after the fact. “But obviously he wasn’t dead after all.”

“No, he wasn’t. Neither is his associate.” Illya cut off his explanation as they turned in their badges at the front desk before heading into the tailor shop and then outside into the cool night air.

“So are they a security risk?” Napoleon queried when Del Floria’s was behind them.

“I don’t know,” Illya admitted. “When one of them managed to reprogram U.N.C.L.E.’s computers, obviously they have enough knowledge of U.N.C.L.E. that they could be dangerous.”

“I’m still hearing a but in your tone.” Arriving at Napoleon’s car, Napoleon unlocked the doors and climbed inside.

Illya went around to the passenger side and got in. “We need to find out how they were able to control the computers. Mr. Waverly was furious about that and so was I, really. But in any case, my stalker didn’t seem interested in taking revenge for what I did to him. He seemed to accept it as a hazard of the profession. He just wanted to rattle me and let me know he was still around. He said he and his partner no longer work for that organization; they would have been killed as traitors and so they decided to play dead and get out. They’re independent contractors at the moment, which could certainly become a concern depending on who hires them.”

“That still doesn’t tell me what you plan on doing.” Napoleon started the engine and pulled out of the parking spot.

“Regardless of whether or not they should be allowed to remain free, I was likely going to let them. For now,” Illya swiftly added. “When I see either of them again, I will follow him and learn where they are staying.”

“That would be good to know,” Napoleon nodded. “But are you sure Mr. Waverly doesn’t currently need to know this information?”

“He should know. I merely wanted to talk with you about the matter first.” Illya gazed out the window as they drove down the street. “You know me, Napoleon—I don’t give any criminal a break unless I feel he deserves it. That’s how Mr. Ecks ended up stabbed in the first place. As he quite rightly pointed out to me tonight, and as you did at the time, I could have used a non-fatal method to stop him from killing our man. I chose to stab him with his own knife because I believed he was enough of a threat that he should be eliminated entirely.”

“But since he isn’t working for that organization any more, you feel that removes the threat he posed,” Napoleon stated rather than asked.

“Perhaps. Depending on what he does next, he could end up just as serious a threat as before. I’d like to observe him for a while, as he was doing with me.”

“If you can find him again,” Napoleon intoned.

“I can find him. At the moment I felt it more vital to go to Mr. Waverly’s meeting. If I had tried to follow him then, he likely would have been expecting it and seen to it that I did not succeed. I believe they are both staying somewhere in the city. And I had the impression that they were between jobs. If they are, I don’t know what they’re doing for money.”

“He or his friend may have had some saved up from before,” Napoleon said. “As for telling Mr. Waverly, when, exactly, do you plan to handle that particular keg of dynamite?”

“Soon. Perhaps after I find out where they’re staying. I would like to have more to tell him than simply that I am being stalked by a dead man who is not dead.”

“Ah ha.” Napoleon did not sound convinced.

Illya sighed. “I don’t want to, but tonight part of me saw him as a dark mirror of myself. I wonder if I would have been like him in other circumstances.”

“I’ve heard the arguments that the way people turn out is largely because of their environments, but I still don’t entirely buy it,” Napoleon said. “Look at all the kids with loving parents who turn out to be hoods. Or all the kids growing up in ghettos who decide to make people’s lives better instead of worse.

“Environment plays some part in the grand scheme of things, I’ll admit that. But there’s also the interesting concept of a person’s inherent nature. I’m sure you’ve heard about kids who their parents swear were bad from birth.”

“I have,” Illya said noncommittally.

“Then by that same token, some kids just seem to be born good. Oh, not that I don’t imagine you weren’t a holy terror as a child, but somehow I can’t feature you ever going truly bad, no matter how you grew up. It’s not in your nature.”

“You certainly place a great deal of confidence in me, Napoleon.” Illya still didn’t sound convinced.

“Only where it’s warranted, chum. But let me get this straight. You’d rather not tell Mr. Waverly yet about this unexpected resurrection because you want him to have more information than just that. It almost sounds like you’re also thinking that he might want something done about it immediately and you’d rather give this person another chance because you saw some part of yourself in him.”

“Not exactly,” Illya frowned. “When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. If I fully saw myself in such a potentially dangerous man, I would be more likely than ever to want him removed from the picture. We both know how dangerous I can be.”

Napoleon gave a slight nod. He had to concede to that logic; it sounded more like the Illya he knew.

“I suppose it’s more that, as you said, he doesn’t seem as serious a threat right now. He is without direction. And while he could very well end up being as serious a threat as before, it’s also possible that he will choose another path this time around. He deserves the chance to choose another path. I don’t trust him, which is why I wish to observe him for a while. Then, based on what I observe, I will act accordingly.”

“Mr. Waverly would probably tell you the same thing, given the circumstances. And I doubt you’ll be able to observe anyone for very long without him finding out about it.”

“I agree. Anyway, he promised to ask me about what happened tonight and he most certainly will get around to that.”

“He will indeed,” Napoleon had to acknowledge. “How long he’ll wait is another matter.”

“Perhaps only until tomorrow.”

“You’re certainly blasé about it, considering you want to wait to tell him.”

“I may feel differently in the morning. Besides, I would be surprised if he waited much longer than that.”

“That’s true.”

It was always interesting, traveling with Illya. Napoleon had thought it many times in the past and was thinking it again now. Illya so often said or did the unexpected. But upon reflection, most of what he said and did made a great deal of sense.

“You know, this line of conversation started in the first place because you seemed to want my advice,” Napoleon said. “Do you still want it or do you feel you’ve talked it out enough with me as your sounding board?”

“I still want it.”

“Then I think you should do as you deem best,” Napoleon said. “Just as long as you don’t delay in finding out where Ecks and Wye are staying.”

“I won’t.” Illya paused. “Thank you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon shrugged, not displaying that he was touched. “I’m only agreeing with the decision you made.”

“But you wouldn’t if you didn’t believe in it.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“So I thank you for seeing it my way.”

Napoleon nodded his consent. He trusted Illya’s judgment now; if anything, he had felt Illya had been unnecessarily brutal in fatally stabbing Mr. Ecks. But for all he knew, it might have been the best course of action at that point. Perhaps now, letting the man live was the right choice. Time would tell.


End file.
